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"Mike D:sco" wrote:we have our own North Korea here in Europe, too. it´s called Sweden. they just don´t want your band to play there unless you´re from US and have the right hair.
Just what is the right hair?
Sorry, kind of forgot to keep it going…
Read some byron, shelly and keats
Recited in over a Hip-Hop beat
I’m having trouble saying what I mean
With dead poets and drum machinesI’m with Lou, why should there be guilty pleasures? This little song has kept me in a great mood lately
"Bulb" wrote:heey.. if not Zagreb, i would love to come in Prague on concert.. (for instance)
What a wonderful idea
Since I’ll start working/living there on the 1st of June, I’ve had it myself for some time
J, are you listening?"Annastefka" wrote:Being legally forced into someones idea of righteousness
sucks. One has to find righteousness on their own.Well said
Leaving the sexiness of horse urine aside…
What’s so wrong with condoms? (besides the obvious fact that it is just so much nicer to make love without one) If herpes is "just so sad", what is AIDS?
What’s so wrong with being gay?
What’s so wrong with Turkey entering the European union just because the majority of turks are muslims and not christians?"Coma Girl" wrote:We would be practicing and he would put earplugs in and the blast cups over the top of them – like a construction worker…😯
wow, I loved seeing/hearing that!
Could be J had some probs with the guitar, but the solo was amazing!
Fuck I don’t have time to watch it again now.. need to pick someone up at a bus station… arrgghhhhhh
Sure.
"It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn’t know what I was doing in New York. I’m stupid about executions. The idea of being electrocuted makes me sick, and that’s all there was to read about in the papers–goggle-eyed headlines staring up at me on every street corner and at the fusty, peanut-smelling mouth of every subway. It had nothing to do with me, but I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like, being burned alive all along your nerves.
I thought it must be the worst thing in the world.
New York was bad enough. By nine in the morning the fake, country-wet freshness that somehow seeped in overnight evaporated like the tail end of a sweet dream. Mirage-gray at the bottom of their granite canyons, the hot streets wavered in the sun, the car tops sizzled and glittered, and the dry, cindery dust blew into my eyes and down my throat.
I kept hearing about the Rosenbergs over the radio and at the office till I couldn’t get them out of my mind. It was like the first time I saw a cadaver. For weeks afterward, the cadaver’s head–or what there was left of it–floated up behind my eggs and bacon at breakfast and behind the face of Buddy Willard, who was responsible for my seeing it in the first place, and pretty soon I felt as though I were carrying that cadaver’s head around with me on a string, like some black, noseless balloon stinking of vinegar.
(I knew something was wrong with me that summer, because all I could think about was the Rosenbergs and how stupid I’d been to buy all those uncomfortable, expensive clothes, hanging limp as fish in my closet, and how all the little successes I’d totted up so happily at college fizzled to nothing outside the slick marble and plate-glass fronts along Madison Avenue.)
I was supposed to be having the time of my life. "
